


These Small Hours

by Amyreadsandstresses



Series: The Child Verse [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Domestic Fluff, Dysfunctional Family, Family Drama, Family Feels, Family Issues, Gen, Holmes Brothers, Hurt Sherlock Holmes, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Light Angst, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft Holmes Has Feelings, Parent Sherlock, Parentlock, Pre-Canon, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes Has a Heart, Sherlock Holmes and Drug Use, Sherlock Holmes is Bad at Feelings, Sherlock Holmes is a Bit Not Good, Sherlock is a Good Parent, Sherlock is a Mess, Sherlock is trying, Sherlock's Past, Single Parent Sherlock, Teen Sherlock, The Child Verse, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-12 21:35:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29641032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amyreadsandstresses/pseuds/Amyreadsandstresses
Summary: A year has passed since Sherlock Holmes became a parent. but there is still much to be lived. Life will change, people will be hurt, he will move on. But in order to get to where he wants to be, Sherlock and his child must walk the long way first.These small hours will tell us the highlights of the first two years into Sherlock's parenthood, giving way to more of our known and beloved characters to enter the field. This part is primarily for the Holmes Clan.Part 5 of "The Child Verse", could stand alone but the previous parts would give more context.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes, Original Female Character/Original Male Character, Sherlock Holmes/Original Male Character(s), past Sherlock Holmes/Original Female Character
Series: The Child Verse [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2118003
Kudos: 9





	1. One More Milestone

**Author's Note:**

> It is finally here! The first Chapter for part 5!!! And my week is looking far less busy so the next bit should come much faster than this one did. Anyhow, if you've made it this far, then thank you so much! If you're new then welcome, hope you decide to stay, and I hope everyone enjoys the rest of the series as much as I will enjoy writing it :)  
> On that note, I do already have the outline of the next one-shot parts and the first 7 chapters for the long story set during BBC Canon. Let me tell you, there's still a while to go. But it's all for a reason.  
> The title of this part comes from the song "Little Wonders" by Rob Thomas, which is a song featuring in the playlist I uploaded a few days ago as a waiting bonus while this chapter was finished. Without further ado, let's get reading!
> 
> Sadly, I do not own Sherlock nor the BBC Canon. I do however own Jack, Gina, Bethany, Marcus, and Magnus, basically, the OC's. Please do not copy my work, or upload it anywhere without my explicit permission.

Sherlock woke to the morning of March 4th covered in sweat and tears, if he were to be asked, he would deny any of these were his own. Yes, the redness in his eyes was because of a bad night’s sleep, nothing more. He was rocking Beth, had been since six in the morning, it was now nine. The girl had started crying shortly after he picked her up from her cot and changed her nappy, she hadn’t stopped since, not for a second. He had tried everything, he had walked, and checked for illness, and talked, and hummed; nothing seemed to be working. Sherlock had started growing more and more frustrated as time went by, no matter what he did, or thought of doing, it wasn’t enough. Not for her. Four months ago, he would have passed her onto Jack, or Gina at worst. Now, he couldn’t do that, they were back at the flat and he had his room here. He had thought himself ready, prepared to keep both the baby and himself healthy and relatively sane on his own; most days he could. It appeared that today he couldn’t. His eyes drifted to the bedside table, the tingling in the crooks of his elbows growing louder. He stayed where he was, clutching The Child, and ignoring the tears of exhaustion in his own eyes. He wouldn’t use, he had promised himself he wouldn’t.

“Child, calm down”, he said between his teeth, “there’s nothing at all to cry about.”

Beth, however, disagreed. Her wails went on thundering through their tiny room, threatening to burst Sherlock’s eardrums at any given second. He wanted to scream with her; it had been a long time since he had felt this useless in the art of caring for his daughter. A part of him wanted to call Jack or Gina, or even his parents, anyone, to help him; the other wanted to be able to do this alone, just as he had always known he would have to, eventually. 

A whisper at the back of his mind longed for Isabel, for the young woman he had seen on a dowry night in Cambridge’s laboratories; she would have been good at caring for Beth, she would have taken over when he ran out of patience, they would have been a team. Sherlock hadn’t known many things back when the news of Bethany’s future existence had been made public, but he had known that both Sabel and himself would succeed as long as they stayed together. Then she had died, and now here he was. Alone and apparently as incapable as he had been those first weeks. He hated it, hated her dying, hated Beth having no mother, hated himself being at a loss of companion. Hated the loss of possibilities those last months had risen. He hated it all.

Hate was also safer than the monster that had been growing at the pit of his stomach for the past hour. Surely it wasn’t normal for the child to still be crying now, not at this age. Before, she could cry for a whole night, but she hadn’t done such a thing in months. There had to be something wrong, something he wasn’t seeing, something that had slipped past him. And if that was the case, then what did that say of him? What kind of parent would that make him?

But if there wasn’t and he took them both to a surgery, panicked and red-eyed… he couldn’t make a mistake, not at his age and with their living conditions, not with the murderous affair he was keeping at bay in the bedside drawer. Not with the threat of Social Services around the corner. If she was taken away... 

“Dada”, a wobbly voice rose from his arms. Sherlock’s throat constricted; it was a pitiful sound.

“I’m here,” he answered, keeping his eyes on the wall across from them, trying to hold onto his composure, “I have been here every day, what else could you possibly want with me?”

Many things, if the wails were meant to tell him anything. The girl kept crying, now practically screaming in his ear. Sherlock’s eyes stung more, a stinging he attempted to blink away. He thought of taking her downstairs, where someone might have an idea of what to do, when his ears picked up on hurried steps.

It took seconds before the door was slammed open. Marcus appeared in the hallway. 

“What on Earth is goin’ on?” The pub owner hissed from the doorway, his eyes widened and shoulders stiff. Clearly, the older man had been expecting some form of a disaster.

“Excellent question”, he tried to pretend his eyes weren’t shining. Marcus’ frown indicated he did so unsuccessfully. “She’s been like this for three hours.”

Marcus fumbled from where he was, looking at both Sherlock and Bethany a remarkable amount of times in just five seconds. Finally, the pub owner opened his mouth, blurting out the first thing he thought of. 

“Maybe she wants food.”

“Checked, she didn’t.”

“Nappies?”

“No.”

“Fever?”

“That either.”

Silence. Marcus frowned, still a bit worried as he looked at his tenants; slowly, that worry opened way to amusement. Though a slight frown remained, causing a starking contrast against the dancing eyes. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, failing to see what was so funny.

“Kid, look at ‘er”, the older man fought down any growing concern, attempting to hide it behind a smile.

“What?”, Marcus raised his eyebrow, holding Sherlock’s gaze; the pub owner’s eyes sternly looked him down. “I have been looking at her.”

“No, you haven’.” Sherlock thought back to his morning, trying to pinpoint if he had looked at the little eyes or not. Hadn’t he? He hadn’t meant to ignore her, but since his search came up empty, it would seem that he had. 

“Oh.”

Sherlock looked down at the baby in his arms then, watching her closely. She kept up her crying but her eyes fractionally widened as they found his own; he got his face closer to hers, making it clear it was her he was looking at. Bethany reached out for her father, holding her small hand near his cheek, but not touching.

“Dada”, the little girl frowned, reproach coming off of her in waves. Sherlock’s insides twisted.

“So, that’s what you meant”, he whispered to his charge, matching the unhappy curl of her mouth with one of his own. He hadn’t avoided looking at her since the first days of his parenthood; he hadn’t expected to ever do so again, let alone unintentionally.

“Christ, kid.” Marcus huffed, coming closer and peeking at the baby. He placed his hand on her head and smiled when she turned her eyes to him. “We’ll open soon, got yar plan for the day?” 

“Yes”, Sherlock nodded, still keeping his eyes on Beth. “The Child and I will visit her aunt and uncle at their insistence.”

“Alright, don’t stay out too late.” Marcus slapped his shoulder, careful not to do so strongly enough to rattle the baby.

“We won’t.” The pub owner nodded at them both and walked out of the room, presumably returning to his office on the floor below.

Sherlock sat down on the floor, back against the bed, and settled the child on his legs, supporting her head with his knees as he used to do when she was smaller. Bethany was frowning at him, now appeased but still offended over feeling ignored for most of the morning. Sherlock’s lips curled on their own accord; the slightly scrunched up nose was nearly a carbon copy of another one, on another girl, that he had also become the recipient of remarkably often. As he would have done with that girl, he settled his forehead against Beth’s, keeping the tips of their noses touching. The baby cooed, reaching for his cheek once again; Sherlock leaned into the touch, allowing her to explore his face with her much smaller hands. 

He closed his eyes, breathing in her smell; it had grown to be very familiar to him. He knew that the basic instinct behind species preservation and keeping up a particular bloodline had a large role to play where his protectiveness of the small creature in his company was concerned. He also liked to think there was more to it. That all of the changes in his life had been about more than genetic predisposition. He was loath to use the word love, it was such an abstract concept, the common perception behind it nothing more than a social construct so many fell for thinking of as a reality. But at the same time.... was there another word for the burning in his veins whenever the child was threatened, or the weight in his stomach when she got hurt, the breath hitching in his throat when she suffered, or the warmth across his chest during moments like this? 

The baby’s lips smashed against the tip of his nose, a habit she had recently picked up. He suspected Gina was to blame. Sherlock opened his eyes, smirking at the girl on his knees, and picked them both up from the floor. Walking to their tiny wardrobe and picking out a clean set of clothes for the child.

“Come on”, he spoke in her ear, “we have places to be.”

  
  


Unlike most times, he knocked on the door. There was still a key to the flat in his wallet, of course, but he didn’t think it appropriate to use it anymore. 

Father and daughter waited out in the hall; as he had many times in the past, Sherlock felt a surge of gratefulness over the fact Jack and Gina had their housing outside of Cambridge grounds. There had already been more than enough talk about his daughter before she was born, he wasn’t willing to subject her to the idiotic gossip of his peers now that she was a living, breathing child.

Jack materialized in front of them, holding the door open. The slightly older man smiled at them, ushering them inside. Sherlock heard the dissonant singing coming from the kitchen, he turned to Jack, who winced slightly before taking Beth into his own arms and ran to the kitchen, holding the baby as if she were flying. Giggles filled the flat. Sherlock fought down a smile. 

“Hi!”, Gina emerged from the small room, running to her niece, arms extended, “how are you, baby?”

“Good!” Beth yelled, her arms open and a proud smile on her face.

Sherlock chuckled, leaving the diaper bag and his jacket by the door. 

“Is that a new word?” The couple turned to him, sporting wide eyes and smiles. Jack seemed very excited at the concept. He had been waiting for the opportunity of keeping up a proper conversation with Beth that did not consist primarily of baby babble. 

“It is, yes.” Mason had taught it to her, he had spent weeks staying after their shift ended just to say the word to Beth as a form of greeting. 

“Ah! You’re growing so much smarter”, Gina squeezed the baby tightly, kissing her cheeks while his daughter laughed, “she’s adorable, I had forgotten just how much so.”

“You can have her for a few days if it would make it better.”

Jack openly laughed at that, holding his hands up and shaking his head.

“Oh no”, he looked at Sherlock, wiggling his eyebrows, “makers, keepers.”

“You two are horrible”, his not-sister-in-law-but-as-close-as-it-gets sniffed, looking down her nose at them both as she started walking to the kitchen, conspiratorially talking in her niece’s ear. “Aren’t they just hateful, Beth?”

The little girl looked confusedly from one adult to the other, a smile was still on her face but now, there was also a frown. For a minute, she stayed quiet, before breaking into a wider smile and waving at the three of them.

“Hi!”

They all chuckled. Beth started clapping, perfectly pleased with herself. Sherlock and Jack followed the girls into the kitchen, taking a seat around the small table there. He was secretly glad to find biscuits, tea, and a fresh pizza resting on it. Expecting the need to open space for the child, he chose a chair by the corner but was inwardly relieved when Gina kept the baby, giving him the perfect chance to take a break. 

Jack launched into a retelling of their week, sharing all the new developments within their generation at Cambridge. Sherlock pretended to listen, enjoying his cup of tea far too much to let it turn sour in his mouth by pointlessly caring about the exams and projects he wasn’t taking part in while other idiotic members of his grade were. He specifically made a point of ignoring everything that came after the name Sebastian Wilkes. Gina, sensing his slight discomfort before Jack did, took over the conversation, asking about his job or the pub. So, Sherlock talked, mindlessly listing any and all occurrences since they had last seen each other, with Beth piping in with claps or small comments whenever he mentioned Marcus or Mason. They talked until the food ran out and they were all completely full. Even Beth, who was napping in Gina’s lap. For a minute, there was silence. He found he had closed his  eyes, his head resting against the back of his chair. Sherlock felt a tug at the back of his mind, he wondered if he could get away with a nap of his own, it wouldn’t be the first time he took over the sofa. 

“A year, huh?” Sherlock startled, turning to Gina, “can you believe it?”

“God, no”, Jack smiled wistfully. He turned to Beth, his eyes softening, “it’s crazy.”

“Not at all how I expected to spend my twenties.” He joined in, groggily muttering under his breath. Gina turned to him, a look on her eyes reminiscent to one she had sent his way on a horrible night many months ago. A look that spoke of fear and concern; one he would forever associate with the shakes and pain of withdrawal. 

“Regrets?” she asked, not unkindly but keeping an arm protectively held around his child. 

Sherlock thought, looking at the baby that had his eyes and curls, the baby that had her mother’s nose. There had been a time he had considered her his greatest mistake, back when Sabel had told him in the dark about their predicament. But that had been almost two years ago. 

“Oddly enough, I don’t believe there are”, he said, mildly surprised. Of course, he did have regrets, many, when it came to the years since he’d arrived in Cambridge; regrets that started with a seven percent solution and ended in bottles of vodka. He did not, however, have regrets about other aspects of his life and past choices. He pointed at the baby with his chin. “Not about that one, at the very least.”

“Good”, the young woman smiled, all tension leaving her body. He noticed her eyes seemed close to shining. 

“Alright, no need to start crying”, Jack said from his chair, clearly seeing the same signs he had. “It’s a happy day! A year of life for little Beth.”

They all turned to the sleeping child, now a toddler. Warmth not unlike the one he had experienced earlier that morning spread across his chest. Gina looked at Jack with a gentle smile. 

“A year of being aunt and uncle.”

“A year of parenthood.” He added, his throat clenching, though not painfully. 

“It’s not so bad”, they all looked around the flat. He stared at the sofa, the grey thing where he had spent many nights for months. A lot had changed in a year, a great lot.

Jack opened his mouth to say something but was interrupted by Beth’s squirming in Gina’s arms. All three young adults kept quiet, observing the little girl that had so suddenly come into their lives. She woke slowly, eyes blinking lazily up at them. A small smile spread across her lips when she set her eyes on her father, who smiled in return.

“Hello”, he whispered, hoping to keep her calm. 

Beth shifted her gaze to the table, setting her grey-blue eyes on the biscuits, and pointed.

“Please.”

Gina looked at Sherlock, asking for permission. He nodded, it was the girl’s birthday, after all. Gina stretched and passed the child her biscuit. They watched Beth eat quietly.

“I remember”, Gina started, her eyes lost on the wall behind Sherlock, “back when we were little, Sabel used to always carry a tin of chocolate biscuits in her bag, everyday”, the woman smiled at whatever she was seeing in her mind’s eye, “and when a term ended she would bring two, and we would sit around the little park near our houses and just stuff our faces… it was messy back then but, well, we had biscuits.”

Sherlock’s chest clenched, as he was sure Jack’s had, perhaps twice as painfully. His arms itched to lounge at Beth and take her into his arms, as they usually did whenever Sabel infested his mind. He held his breath and kept still, this time he allowed Gina to find comfort in the child. In Sabel’s child. 

“You guys remember that time we drove an hour out of the city, and came across this small valley of sorts”, Jack sighed, eyes dancing, “the one where we spilled a few hundreds worth of champagne.”

Sherlock snorted, the admittedly blurry memories he had of the night in question floating to the front of his mind.

“Oh yeah”, Beth rested her head back on her aunt’s chest, “that was… a night.” Gina passed her fingers through the dark curls, half of her words getting lost in the mop of hair. 

“I still have the scar.” He did, in fact, have a scar down his ankle from when he had tripped over an empty champagne bottle and cut his foot open with a sharp rock he had fallen on top of. 

“You didn’t fall that hard”, Gina teased.

“How would you know, you were drunk”, he snapped back, voice dripping sarcasm.

“As were you.” He had been something else too, but none of them mentions it. They don’t have to. 

They fall silent again, each of them lost in their memories. Jack kept up an occasional reminiscence about the last three years, making small comments whenever he came up with something he considered to be worth sharing. Gina played with Beth on her chair, giving Sherlock the opportunity to think. So much had changed in such little time; so many things had been lost, doors closed, just as he had gained others he never before expected to even want. His mind drifted back to Isabel yet again. Usually, he could avoid thinking of her at all, but other times… other times she escaped from the locked room he kept her in and walked the halls of his Palace, waiting for him to come across her. Days like today, when he heard music, saw Christmas lights on Cambridge trees, felt the euphoria of cocaine and alcohol. 

He felt other things too, the trace of warm lips on his own, of gentle touches on his hands and arms, of hugs and tears soaking his shirt. Her breath as they slept, her laugh when they stopped for strawberry milkshakes at two in the morning, her always differently-colored hair tickling his chin. 

He thought of the first time he saw her, as focused on her work and indifferent about his presence as he was about her. She had been a puzzle, a friend, a contradiction, the mother of his child; now she was a ghost. 

Now it was just him. Sherlock and his daughter, who had once been the proof of all his mistakes. It was better now. She had made it to one year in full health, he was now twenty and sober; their lives were looking up. As he usually did, he wondered if his family would think the same; if they would look at his current circumstances with anything other than disappointment. He doubted his parents would, if they ever attempted to contact him again. Mycroft might, he  _ had _ sent that letter, he  _ had _ asked him to call. Or as close to asking as the fat git ever got. Sherlock hadn’t called yet, but if he were to try, if he were to dial his brother’s number… what would the older Holmes say?

He looked at the table he was sitting around, at the child he had made who was currently conversing peacefully with the woman who had unexpectedly become a part of his family, at the man he had once thought unbearably dull and was now the best babysitter available. If he were to ever call his brother, it would be out of curiosity, not necessity. Something about that made him smile. 

  
  
  


The sun was setting by the time Bethany and him made it back to the pub, just in time for them having a few minutes to themselves before he ought to go down to the kitchen and work. He went inside, Beth laying her head on his shoulder, and started towards the wooden door that led to the second floor they now resided in. 

“Hey! How was it?” the bartender asked from the bar as they walked past her.

“Alright.”

“I’m glad”, she looked at Beth then, her bright, red hair shaking as she smiled, “happy birthday, dear.”

“Thank you” Both Sherlock and Beth said in a sing-song voice. He had grown used to saying it with her after months of trying to teach her the words. 

“It’s the little one’s birthday?” He turned around, facing the few tables that were always used at this hour. The usual clients were there, smiling at Beth from their seats. Over the last four months, they had gotten used to Beth being there. It had been necessary, seeing as he usually came back to the establishment around that hour in order to put the child to bed and start his shift. The baby smiled at them, as she did every night.

“Yes, the first.” The room was filled with words of congratulations to them both. Sherlock just nodded and made his way to the door. He still wasn’t particularly keen on spending his time near the actual clients. The kitchen suited him much better.

He opened the door to their room, setting the bag down and walking to his bed. He changed Beth into her sleeping clothes as fast as he could. They had come back later than he had expected, and his shift would start soon. His eyes drifted to his pillow, where the small notebook he had left there this morning was still open; the few new lines he had written for their melody were right there, for all to see. It was rather simple, not at all like the last years had been, but it was also a beginning. Hopefully, he would soon feel ready to play it. Until then, he would settle for composing. Just for a little while. 

Sherlock carried Beth, getting her in her favourite position for sleep, eyes looking up at him, and started rocking her. This time, he made sure to look at her, lest she started crying as she had in the morning. There was no time for that now. A tune slipped past the doors of his Mind Palace, reaching the stairs that lead to the entrance. He had made sure to shut all doors related to Isabel when he went to sleep last night, wanting to keep any unpleasantness away for the day. Wanting to keep the tightness in his throat at bay. Apparently, it hadn’t been enough.

He looked down at the baby. After the busy day she’d had, the little girl was exhausted, her eyes beginning to shut much faster than they did most nights. Usually, he would speed up the process by humming Mozart, or perhaps even Vivaldi, though not usually. This time, he listened to the song infecting his mind. The child had heard enough of Sabel that day as it was, he supposed it would do no harm to add another bit of information. It wasn’t as if Bethany would be aware of it, not yet.

“On the floors of Tokyo”, he whispered, keeping his eyes on hers, “ or down in London town to go-go.”

Sherlock kept singing, going through the whole thing twice before the baby fell asleep. There had been a time, two years ago, when he heard the song daily. He had hated it at first, but Isabel’s frankly atrocious attempts at dancing had made it bearable.  _ Dancing with myself _ had been her favourite song, a piece of musical excellence, or so she had often said whenever he protested it. 

He hadn’t thought of that song in months. 

With a sigh, Sherlock set Beth down in her cot, covered her up, and started to quietly make his way out of the room. He stopped by the diaper bag, meaning to grab the baby monitor when his eyes caught on a folded paper at the very bottom of the bag. He grabbed it along with the device and left the room. 

Sherlock looked at the paper in his hands, reading the words again.

_ You might just have to call. _

It could be a quip, or it could be an invitation. He’d allowed the silence to stretch since getting that letter. The message was clear, the next move, if there was to be any, was his to make. 

A year had passed since Beth, two since he had seen his brother. He hadn’t wanted him around before, not when things were still... not good. But the circumstances had changed, and he could use an even larger access to his trust fund. They were relatively stable at the moment, but the money was still short. It was bad enough the child had only one toy because he couldn’t afford the luxury of buying more. 

He took a deep breath, his eyes stuck to the back of the door to their room, and fished out his mobile. Perhaps, just this once, it wouldn’t be much of a sacrifice to try. Only this once. Only for the child. It’s not like he had ever missed Mycroft, not at all. Not ever. This was a perfectly rational decision, a convenient contact. 

Sherlock dialed the number, aware that his shift would start in just a few minutes. That he would have to cut the call short. It made breathing easier, knowing whatever happened after the ringing stopped would be over quickly.

An eternity seemed to pass, several millennials in the space of a breath. Until the call picked up, a half of a second passed, and a long-not-heard voice filled his ears. 

“Hello, brother mine.”


	2. Brother Mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock’s mind went completely blank, all he could do was stand there and stare at the man who had once been so familiar. The only person who had been on his side for many years, the person that had left him behind.

“Mycroft.” 

Both Holmes brothers stood quietly by their respective phones, each holding their breath. After two years of silence on both ends, it was hard to believe they were coming to each other now. 

“I’m afraid there have been rather scandalous sayings about you, little brother”, Mycroft spoke first, gathering his bearings faster, “sayings of you dropping out of  _ Cambridge _ to raise an accidental child.”

Sherlock didn’t know what to say. It was true, of course, and he was sure Mycroft already knew it, so why bring it up as a  _ saying _ ? Was Mycroft hoping he would call it a lie? His hard drive came to a stop for the first time since he had walked out of his room, now that he was actually here, talking to his older brother, there were very few things he could think of saying. He stuck to facts. Safer.

“Her name is Bethany.”

“Oh, Sherlock.” Just as he had feared; pity, disappointment, rejection. His blood burned.

“Shut up”, he growled into his mobile, barely remembering not to yell, lest he woke the child, “whatever you have to say has either been already said by someone else or I’ve thought it by now, so spare me.” 

Quiet. Mycroft Holmes remained quiet. If it were for any other reason, he would be laughing by now, rejoicing in taking the words right out of his older brother’s mouth. Not this time, not when it was about this. 

They said nothing, simply stood there, phones in hand. It was surprisingly familiar, falling into filled up silences just as they once used to do around the dining table at the house in Surrey; as seemed to be the Holmes way wherever Sherlock was concerned. It was so horribly reminiscent of his growing up that he temporarily forgot why he had even called in the first place.

“You told me to call”, he spat out, finally.

“Ah yes”, the older of the two sighed, “the trust fund.”

“A child is expensive”, he muttered. It wasn’t a lie.  _ Facts _ . 

“I’ve heard”, teasing slurring on the other side of the call. 

“A larger access to my trust fund would not be inconvenient.”

“I’m sure it wouldn’t be.” He could hear the smile on Mycroft's face.

“If you only mean to tease, tell me”, he growled, “I do have things to do, shifts to work, children to raise. You understand.” 

The venom in his voice seemed to take them both by surprise. He hadn’t meant to alienate Mycroft; not so rapidly, at the very least.

“Yes, of course”, the older Holmes took a long breath, thinking of a proper retort. “I would be wise to confirm your words, little brother. You have been known to require the trust fund for far more unsavoury ends. You understand.”

Sherlock wanted to hit the wall, hang up, spit on his brother’s face. This wasn’t about cocaine, and he certainly had not fallen as low as to use a baby for an excuse to get high. His baby, no less.

“Be very careful what you say to me, Mycroft”, his eyes drifted back to the door housing the child, “there are advantages to my calling you, but I assure you, it is not necessary.”

“If you want larger access to your trust fund, I need to know what it will be used for”, his brother said, voice clipped, “if you want the money, I am first to meet this…  _ child _ of yours.”

“Bethany”, he snapped, “she does have a name, as you have already been told.”

His shift would start very, very soon; he had to hang up. Sherlock didn’t know whether to be pleased or not.

“Apologies”, Mycroft was measuring him up, measuring his responses, if the tone was what he thought it was, “I will need to meet  _ Bethany _ , in order to ensure any and all economical arrangements between us are satisfactory for all parties.”

“Is my word not good enough for you?” of course it wasn’t. How could it be? The last promise he had made his brother had been about returning to his studies with a sharp mind and clean bloodstream. He had done neither. 

“I’m sure you agree that this topic, in particular, is more… imperative, than any that has been dealt with within our family in the past.” 

“When?”

“Are you free this Friday evening?”

“I work night shifts five days a week.”

“Saturday, then”, Mycroft sighed, as if he were doing him a gigantic favour, “morning?”

“Fine.” Sherlock looked at a clock on the wall, he had to go. “Not some office.”

“I’m sure you will find my own flat to be suitable for our endeavours”, he could almost see the goading smirk on his brother's face, “and private.”

“You still live in the same building, then.” He tried to keep his voice steady, refusing to allow the pompous git any form of self-congratulation.

“If I didn’t, I would have also provided an address in my letter.”

“Fine.” Both brothers paused, there were still many things that needed to be said. There was also no more time. “I have work, now.”

“Yes, of course, I...”, Mycroft suddenly stopped, as if making a big decision Sherlock didn’t get to know about. When the older Holmes spoke again, his voice was gentler than it had been in nearly a decade, “goodnight, brother mine.”

  
  
  


He stirred the tomato sauce in his pan with God-like fury. Calling his brother had been… something. Not absolutely terrible, he supposed. He’d been expecting far more bloodshed, if he were completely honest. But that fat git had also clearly enjoyed it, enjoyed goading him, enjoyed being in a position to force his hand thanks to the money. It was disgusting. 

Mason walked up to him, a frown adding new lines to his forehead. As usual, the red-haired man tapped his knee with his own. 

“Ok?” Mason asked, peering over his shoulder and watching the sauce in the pan.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” 

“No reason, just…”, the man shrugged. “Well, it’s her birthday, isn't it?” Sherlock nodded, stirring harder, “figured you would be more, I don’t know, cheerful.”

“I am not unhappy if that’s what you’re attempting, and failing, to ask.” 

Mason kept looking at him, biting his bottom lip and passing his weight from one foot to the other. 

“You don’t look happy either.”

Sherlock sighed, head hanging low. He had been hoping not to be so glaringly obvious in the aftermath of that phone call. It was disgraceful. 

“Would the word relatives be a satisfactory explanation for my not-happiness?”

“Family drama, huh?”, a shoulder tapped against his, a smirk curling Mason’s lips, “guess you couldn’t be all perfect.”

“I’m hardly perfect”, he scoffed, “you have met my daughter, yes?”

“Yeah, she’s adorable.”

“That may be”, he nodded. Bethany was certainly amongst the less hideous of children, “she also had terrible timing, as I’m sure many would tell you.”

“Sod them, she got here when she did”, he looked up at the older man sharply, “there’s little point in arguing about something that's already done, isn’t there?”

Sherlock’s eyes opened wide. That was… true, in a way. However, if there was one thing his family and surrounding community had always been good at, it was holding on to past resentments. His whole life had been proof of that.

“I doubt my family would agree”, he muttered under his breath.

“Their loss.” They both stood there, quietly enjoying the other’s company; or in Sherlock’s case, quietly enjoying not being in someone else’s company. “Oi, any chance I get to see the birthday girl after the shift?”

Sherlock looked at Mason, studying his face. There was a look to the green eyes he had seen before but remained unable to decipher. Mason was harmless, that much was clear to him; after almost a year of cohabitation, he’d had ample opportunities to test the other man’s limits and opinions. He cared for Beth, and himself, for some reason. Sherlock had seen the present resting by the coats and jackets from the kitchen staff, it wasn’t much work to see the present came from Mason and was, obviously, meant for Bethany. Why, however, was a different topic entirely. 

“I suppose that could be arranged.”

Mason broke into a wide smile, teeth showing and dimples forming. 

“Awesome.” 

  
  
  


They went up to the room after the shift was over. Mason was holding a purple present bag in his left hand.

Sherlock led the way, opening the wooden door and entering his current housing while Mason stayed out in the hallway. The ginger watched as Sherlock peeked into the cot. Beth was starting to wake, but remained under a superficial sleep.

“You didn’t have to buy her anything”, he whispered from his place by the cot.

“I know”, Mason’s face took on a soft edge to it, “but I figured it wouldn’t hurt.” A flutter in Sherlock’s stomach kept him in place, observing the other man. “Besides, might get me some points with the boss. Everyone knows you two are his favourites.”

He snorted, looking away.

“Well, in that case.”

They both chuckled, accidentally quickening Bethany’s waking process. The girl whined from her cot, stretching and twisting her small limbs. He walked closer, hovering over her face so he would be the first thing she saw. Once she opened her blue-grey eyes and stretched her hand to him, Sherlock carried his child and rocked her gently. He whispered pointless yet soft words in her ear to keep her calm. Usually, he recited the periodic table, having no ideas on what else to possibly say to a waking baby. 

Mason watched from his place by the door, that same indecipherable look in his eyes. As often happened in most people, Mason tilted his head as he watched them together. Sherlock could practically see his mind working itself into overdrive, the same questions he saw on other’s faces decorating the freckled one. Questions he was already growing tired of and would, no doubt, have to answer thousands of times more over the years. Knowing his companion wouldn’t dare to ask, Sherlock answered him. Anything to end it sooner. 

“No.”

Mason startled, looking up at him.

“Sorry?”

“No, the mother is not in the picture”, as often occurred, Sherlock had to fight the hold his past kept around his throat, “she… she passed away, when the Child was born.”

“Oh shit”, not an expected response by all accounts, “man, I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you.” He offered the usual platitudes, no longer meaning them as much as he used to. Now, they were just what needed to be said, what kept people quiet. 

Silence. An absence of words and movements filled with unspoken things fell between them. From his arms, Beth peeked at Mason. The baby watched him quietly, before her eyes cleared as she recognized him, waved, and smiled.

“Hi, kiddo”, Mason smiled back, “look, I got you a present.”

“She’s a toddler, not blind.”

“Hilarious”, the other man deadpanned. He turned back to the child, “want to see, Beth?”

The little girl kept smiling, eyeing the bag. Mason retrieved what was inside, discarding the colorful paper and wrapping. He pulled out a stuffed cat. 

“To keep the dog company”, the redhead shrugged, “thought it was cute.”

Beth reached her arm out for her gift, Mason passed it over and both men watched as Bethany smiled, giggled and pressed her face against the artificial fur. A warmth spread across Sherlock’s chest, pressing his heart. Without consciously deciding to do so, he found himself smiling at Mason, unable to say anything. He nodded his thanks instead. 

  
  
  


“Wow” Beth whispered in his ear, thoroughly amazed by what was, probably, the largest building she had seen in her short life. She turned to look at him with wide eyes, pointing as high as she could.

“Yes, Child”, he nodded, keeping her tightly against his hip, “it _ is  _ a tall building.” 

“In?” The little girl asked. It was amongst the newer words; this one had been taught by Marcus’ tendency of pretending to forget her inside cupboards. The baby found it remarkably entertaining.

“I’m afraid so”, with a long-suffering sigh, Sherlock walked inside. They went for the elevators, refusing to carry a not-so-light one year old for longer than two sets of stairs. 

Bethany kept up her babbles, pointing at lamps and paintings as they walked; she found the reflecting ceiling of the elevator compartment to be a wonderful discovery; the little girl waved at their reflections, laughed, and attempted to hide from them by burying her face in Sherlock’s neck. He allowed it, the halls were empty at that hour, most bureaucrats choosing to either sleep in or go out in their infamous breakfast meetings. There was no one to frown down on either of them. Not yet.

Sherlock used the girl’s playing as an opportunity to think. The last time he had been here, he had recently moved to Cambridge’s residences; now he was coming back with Beth in his arms. Something about that made his stomach twist, no matter how physically unlikely such movements from said organ would be. 

He inspected his blurred reflection on the metal doors. The nicer shirt and trousers looked unfamiliar to him; ever since Beth’s third vomiting spree as an infant, he had put them aside and favoured the less expensive of his clothing, seeing as they weren’t out of the _messy_ _stage_ just yet, he’d kept it that way. He looked almost exactly the same as he had the last time he rode this elevator. His hair was longer, and there were dark smudges under his eyes -permanently, it seemed-, but other than that, it was as if no time had passed at all. But he was much changed in other ways, as was his life. He feared that, after tonight, his world would change even more. 

The door opened, landing on the sixth floor, only one hall away from his brother's flat. He walked out of the elevator, going the rest of the way by memory. Seeming to sense his discomfort, the baby quieted, pressing herself against his chest. He squeezed her once in some poor approximation of a hug and kept on his way. They reached the door soon, far too soon. 

“Be nice”, he whispered to the small person in his company, “only until he promises us the money, then you can pee on his favourite rug for all I care.”

With a sigh, Sherlock knocked on the door.

They waited for all of three seconds before it opened, and on the other side, appeared his brother. 

They stared at each other, neither of them seeming capable of saying a word. Sherlock’s mind went completely blank, all he could do was stand there and stare at the man who had once been so familiar. The only person who had been on his side for many years, the person that had left him behind. He ignored the tightness in his chest, the stinging that wanted to appear behind his eyes, the shortness of breath. As he had grown accustomed to doing, he clutched his daughter and buried his nose in her curls. 

Doing an excellent impersonation of a machine that had just been connected online, the baby rose her head in a single sweep and stared forward, observing the man at the door. She stayed silent for a moment, looking Mycroft up and down as the older man watched in quiet amazement, then she turned to her father and frowned. 

“That’s… your uncle, I suppose”, he told her, barely passing the words through his lips.

Beth turned to his brother again, this time much slower, and her frown cleared. She playfully pulled on one of Sherlock’s curls and pointed inside the room, cooing. He raised his eyes to meet his older brother’s and quirked an eyebrow.

“Please, come in”, back in character, Mycroft stood aside, opening the door wider for them.

He followed quietly, slipping inside the flat and looking around. It was much the same as the last time he’d seen it. The white walls, understated yet expensive furniture, a carved wooden dining table. Horribly like their childhood home had looked like. “Make yourselves comfortable.”

Considering his options, he walked to the small living room and settled down on the leather sofa; the wooden table was almost an exact replica of another one he had grown to hate over the years. Sofas, he was well acquainted with.

The baby sat comfortably on his lap, her head resting against his chest, though she didn’t take her eyes off of Mycroft for a second. The bureaucrat sat in front of them, in a stuffed armchair, and met the girl’s gaze. They both seemed to measure each other, taking in as much as they could of the stranger they had been faced with. Bethany grew tired of it first, deciding Mycroft to be boring, she squirmed and whined. Sherlock set her down by his legs and scavenged in the diaper bag he now always carried with him for the stuffed dog. He passed the toy to her and sat back up.

“How old is she, exactly?”, his brother asked from his chair, eyes settled on the child.

“One year and a day.”

Mycroft looked back at him. If he were anyone else, Sherlock would say his brother looked surprised.

“Her birthday was yesterday.”

“Yes.” 

The older of the two frowned, the tips of his fingers tracing each other softly. 

“Did she”, Mycroft cleared his throat, “was it celebrated?”

“It was”, he wasn’t sure on how to explain the oddity the past day had been for him. Once again, he settled for facts. “A… friend got her a new toy, and her aunt and uncle had us over for lunch.”

“Family on her mother’s side”, it was a statement. Not one said too kindly.

“As close as it gets.”

“And this… relatives”, his brother’s mouth twisted on the lower corner, tugging down in apparent distaste, “they have been involved for how long?”

Sherlock felt the air be forced out of his lungs. Had he not known better, Mycroft would seem most disapproving, but a lifetime of experience told him something entirely different. His brother was jealous. He didn’t remember the last time the older man had been jealous about anything concerning his younger brother. 

“They had no choice”, he fought down the urge to tap his fingers on his thigh, “they… we were all in the same term. Different majors, but same circle.”

Mycroft nodded, eyes downcast. Sherlock repressed a shudder, subconsciously checking the locks of Isabel's room in his Mind Palace; now wasn’t the time for memories.

“Because of the mother.”

“Because of Isabel.”

His brother gave no sign of hearing the name. They both fell quiet and watched Beth play by their legs. Mycroft breathed in deeply, processing whatever it was he had managed to pick up from the state of both father and daughter. 

“Her nose is a carbon copy of her mother’s”, Sherlock found himself saying, not truly understanding why. 

“Is it?”

“Exactly.” Mycroft measured him then, analyzing him. Probably studying his eyes, posture, the curl of his lips. Sherlock hated it, knowing there was nothing he could stop his brother from seeing in him, no matter how skilled he was at fooling everyone else in the world. 

“She has your eyes”, the older Holmes settled for. Obviously, it wasn’t everything the man had concluded in the past minutes, but it seemed to be everything he would say aloud. Sherlock found himself grudgingly grateful for it. 

“She does.”

“Do you believe she also carries a mind similar to yours?”

And that was a question, wasn’t it? The very reason he had originally settled for keeping Beth; the first reason he ever had to play father. If her mind was anything like his, she would need someone beyond ordinary to teach her to control it. But if she didn’t… at first he had thought it would change everything. It probably would, in some ways, determine how adept he would later on be at parenting. But he doubted he would push her aside if she happened to be ordinary. Or at least, he truly hoped he wouldn’t.

“I can't say for sure”, his eyes found Beth’s, “sometimes it seems like she does, others I’m not so certain.” Her vocabulary was superior to that of other one-year-olds, he knew that. She also seemed very aware of the world, of others; and there was that look she sometimes got, when it truly seemed she was  _ observing _ instead of just seeing. Observing the way he did. Until she decided to chew on her own hand instead and the spell would break. A tingle at the back of his neck told him he was being watched, all of his thoughts being read from the twitch of his brow or some other ridiculous detail he was unable to completely control. What would Mycroft do if she was ordinary? He found he wasn’t too keen on finding out. “She’s very clever, far beyond the cognitive development of most children her age.”

“It wasn’t meant as an insult”, he very purposely ignored the amusement shining in the other’s eyes. 

Silence fell between them again, this time much lighter. Sherlock made sure to keep his eyes on the baby, feigning interest in her playing and just how accurate her attempts at barking were, which wasn’t much. Beth turned to smile at him a few times, but clearly found her own games far more interesting than her father’s silent presence behind her. He didn’t mind, it gave him the opportunity to breathe for once; it wasn’t often there was no need for his constant vigilance of the girl. 

“You look well”, Mycroft finally said, sounding oddly mystified, “better than the last time I saw you.”

Considering the last time they had seen one another Sherlock had been in the midst of withdrawal, that was hardly surprising. Not that Mycroft knew that, or had at least admitted to knowing it. They had both been perfectly happy pretending it was the flu, just as Sherlock had been more than content with lying through his teeth about getting clean only to get a hit the moment he got back home. 

“In some ways I am.”

“In others?”

In others, he had a bag of white powder hidden in his bedside drawer, he hadn’t played the violin in a year because it was all too overwhelming, he worked all night and lived in a single bedroom smaller than his brother’s living room. In others, he sometimes still dreamed about Isabel and a cold hospital room with an empty bed in it. 

Mycroft wasn’t going to know any of that, however. Not if he could help it. 

“I didn’t use to care much for sleep, that has certainly changed.” His brother’s mouth twitched. 

“You’ll soon return to your honestly appalling habits, I’m sure”, the gentle teasing made him uneasy. There was nothing gentle between his brother and himself, not since they had stopped sharing midnight snacks due to nightmares and other childish problems. A gentle Mycroft was always double-edged, as he went ahead and proved yet again, “the parental unit…”

“Don’t.”

“Sherlock…”

“I don’t care”, there was fire in his veins.  _ His parents _ . He wasn’t here for them, he was here for money, for Bethany, anything else was irrelevant, especially the parental unit. “Whatever you have to say about them, I don’t want to hear it.”

“And yet you came to see me”, his brother sighed.

“It’s not the same, and you know it.”

The older man nodded, but remained firm, not ready to give up a fight Sherlock would never back down on. 

“They worry.”

“If that’s the case then they should have contacted me on their own instead of sending their son to speak their words”, Sherlock spat, his fists clenching as heat ran up his neck.

“Brother...”

“I don’t care”, he almost got up from the leather sofa, almost grabbed the baby and walked out the door. Almost. “If this whole encounter is meant as a charade to my re-establishing contact with them, then say it so I can leave.”

Both brothers held the other one’s gaze, staring each other down. Sherlock couldn’t care less about whatever it was his parents had shared as their version of events, about what Mycroft thought he knew. It was very simple from where he was standing. If the words  _ don’t come back _ were uttered, then they could hardly fault him for obeying. If they regretted the way of things, that was one thing, but the next move wasn’t his to make. They fought, he left, they cut him off, he had a child and buried a friend, they didn’t even call. He wasn’t calling either, not now, not after everything, not ever. 

“Larger access, then?”, Mycroft asked, for the first time in a decade allowing Sherlock a victory.

“It would be useful”, he muttered, fists still clenched. 

“Then I shall arrange it”, his brother turned back to the baby, this time analyzing her, “she seems well taken care of.”

“Doubted my abilities that much?”, the bitterness that had pooled in his stomach was apparently unwilling to leave.

“I am merely stating a fact, not making an accusation”, his brother raised his hands.

“She  _ is _ well taken care of”, he sneaked a look at his brother's face, but averted his gaze almost immediately, “we are both fine.”

“I’m glad”, at the younger man’s scoff, Mycroft leaned forward, seeking the bright blue eyes, “truly, I… worried you wouldn’t be.”

“You needn’t have”, Sherlock said through gritted teeth, though far more amicably.

“It’s good to see.”

Mycroft sat back, his eyes once again trailing after Bethany. The man hadn’t attempted to engage her once, he realized. Now it was his turn to study and observe. Mycroft’s jaw was clenched, he was tracing his fingers with his fingertips, his lips were thinned and his eyes, though alert, shone with an emotion he had never associated with his brother before. Mycroft was nervous, not only that, he looked downright terrified. Sherlock didn’t understand why. It was just him and… and the child. The Child. Was that what worried him? Not knowing how to act in front of a girl that wouldn’t even remember that day in a year? Well, that was certainly interesting, and endlessly entertaining. 

“You could approach her, you know?”, the corners of his lips curled into a vicious grin, “she doesn’t bite... anymore.”

“I wouldn’t want to upset her”, his brother’s eyes didn’t stray from Beth.

“Please, the girl loves attention, ridiculously so”, Sherlock rolled his eyes, a memory from two years ago tugging at the corners of his mind, “got it from her mother, of course.”

“Of course.”

There were the hints of a smile around his brother’s lips and eyes, but the older man made no move towards approaching his niece nor looking away from her. Not even Jack had been as hesitant upon his first meeting with the baby. Sherlock rapidly grew tired of it.  _ Tideous _ . 

“Oh for God’s sake”, he rose from his seat, taking Beth into his arms against the protesting yelp from the girl at being moved so suddenly, and settled her on his brother’s lap.

The absolutely stricken look that took over Mycroft’s features was one Sherlock would forever treasure, never in his life had his brother seemed so incredibly petrified. It was glorious. Betheany, in her genius, agreed with him, giggling from her position. She tugged at his brother’s shirt and smiled at his shock. 

“Hi”, the baby chirped, more than overjoyed.

His brother stared idiotically for far too long, mouth slightly open. He blinked repeatedly, apparently reprogramming his own Palace; perhaps digging out all he knew about babies, which couldn’t possibly be much at all. 

“Hello”, Mycroft drawled. He looked at Sherlock, a questioning brow rising, “Bethany, is it?”

“Beth”, he corrected. Hardly anyone called her Bethany to her face, the girl was probably unaware that was her name. 

“Beth.”

His brother nodded and returned his attention to his niece. She smiled at him but frowned after a second. She looked around, apparently concerned and did not smile again until Sherlock met her eyes with his own. Then, as if a button had been pushed, she waved wildly -so wildly Mycroft had to dodge her hands- and bounced in her seat.

“Dada”, she giggled, “hi.”

“Hello, Child”, as always, Sherlock granted her the beginnings of a smirk.

“Dada?”

“She’s one, hardly going to have a perfect pronunciation.” His brother hummed, playing with the dog Beth was showing him.

“Not father, I assume”, it was an innocent question; one they knew contained several not innocent things. Unspoken things, about silent dinners, stern looks, and decades-old grudges. It was rather admirable how steady the older man could keep his voice as he asked. 

“No”, Sherlock responded, hands twitching, “not ever.”

Mycroft pretended the question hadn’t been asked after that, instead letting Beth crawl all over him. Sherlock stood a few steps from them, watching his daughter lead his brother into chasing the stuffed dog over Mycroft’s legs. 

“I expect, now that there are economical arrangements between us”, his brother started, still playing with Beth, “visitations, in order to ensure the proper application of said arrangements will be necessary.”

Sherlock’s mouth curled downwards. Just as he had feared, let them in and they never leave. Especially when they are as meddling as Mycroft was. If experience was worth something, his brother would  _ never _ leave them alone now, no matter how much his overbearing presence was unwanted. 

“Not too regularly.”

Mycroft lifted an eyebrow, a single twitch of his mouth glaringly pointing to just how much he was enjoying trapping Sherlock into this. 

“We’ll see.”

The younger man scoffed, putting his hands in the pockets of his trousers and resigning himself to watch as his own daughter enjoyed herself with  _ Mycroft _ of all people. It was disgraceful. 

They didn’t speak after that; Bethany made them both play with the dog, she kept up a conversation made out of babbles and the occasional word, she pulled on Sherlock’s curls and bopped Mycroft’s nose. They both let her. And when the day started to end, night coming closer, Sherlock bundled the child on her coat and blankets, put his diaper bag on his shoulder, and walked out of his brother’s flat. He didn’t manage to leave without a masked warning  _ encouraging _ his calling and keeping in touch lest the money mysteriously stop; nor was he saved from one last valiant attempt at him calling the parental unit; an attempt that ended with him walking abruptly down the hall and Mycroft calling goodbye to Beth behind him. 

The child and he got home just as the sun started to set down. He took them both to their room, seeing as he didn’t have work that night, and sat on his bed with his daughter beside him. Sherlock worked on his composition, writing more lines while he looked at the baby. Later, he put her to sleep in her cot and sat on the floor, watching her as she dreamed. 

Oddly, Sherlock found he could breathe a little easier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And Mycroft has officially entered the playing field. Not to worry though, we'll for sure hear from all Holmes' in one form or another.   
> Though probably not as you would expect. 
> 
> Anyways, that's it for today, hope you enjoyed and I'll see you in the next chapter!


	3. The Passage of Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the first time in his life, a hate-fueled fire grew in his chest, and it was directed at Isabel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's finally here! Sorry, I know it's been a few days but it took me a while to get some parts of this finished. Anyhow, here's the new chapter and I hope you enjoy! :)

_ One year and one week.  _

The night had been hectic. Sherlock doubted the pub had ever had so many customers during a night shift; he certainly hadn’t. There had been so many even Marleen had looked lost for a full ten seconds before gathering her bearings and threatening all of the staff with her infamous set of knives. His hands were red from smacking and rolling dough all night, his wrists ached as much as they had after his first shift in the kitchen, his neck was remarkably sore, he was even reluctant to move his jaw. He hoped the baby would be amiable enough to fall asleep with him earlier than they accustomed.

He started walking out of the kitchen when Mason caught up with him, falling in step.

“Bloody nightmare today, wasn't it?”, the redhead asked beside him.

“Yes.”

“I’ve never worked like that before.” Sherlock suppressed a sigh. “I’m knackered.” 

“Then you should probably sleep”, he muttered, casting a side-eye at his companion, “at your home, in your bed.”

“Oh”, Mason mumbled, “well, I was just... well, I had hoped we could talk a bit. You know, catch up.”

He frowned.  _ Catch up? _ They talked, occasionally, once a shift was over. But after the night they had both had, he saw no reason to seek company instead of peace and quiet.

“About what?”Mason shrugged next to him, the two of them still walking across the pub and towards the door leading upstairs. 

“You never did tell me how that meeting with your brother went, just that it happened.”

“Irrelevant.”

“Oh.”, Sherlock let out a long breath. How an adult -a young one, but still an adult- could look so incredibly heartbroken at not being told the gory details of his family drama, he couldn’t comprehend. Was it related to common sentiment?

“There wasn’t much to it”, they started up the stairs, “we went for money, I got it, the rest is just white noise.”

“What was he like?”, the ginger asked, once again energized, “with the little one, you thought your family wouldn’t be nice to her.”

“My parents wouldn’t be”, Sherlock opened the door to his room, lowering his voice so the child wouldn’t wake, “if I had thought Mycroft capable of being cruel to her, I wouldn’t have taken her with me.”

“Well, was he… nice?”

Nice wasn’t a word he would ever associate with his brother, not in this context, at the very least. But, it was true the older man hadn’t been anywhere near as cruel or smug as he had expected him to be. There was more than enough reason for Mycroft to point out his superiority now, to prove he was the smart one, yet he hadn’t. Oh, he  _ had _ enjoyed goading him and turning his hand financially, holding the trust fund over his head to trap him into some ridiculous imitation of familiar visitations, but for Mycroft’s standards, he supposed that was rather mellow. 

“It could have been worse”, he decided, “he seemed…. indulgent, of her.”

“Well, alright”, the other man nodded enthusiastically, “that’s good.”

“I suppose.” 

They each sat on one side of his ridiculously small bed, as they often did whenever Mason joined Bethany and him after a shift. Sherlock took off his shoes and curled up, resting his head on his pillows. He was far too tired to deal with some inane conversation while sitting up. To his surprise, Mason laid down next to him.

“You really think your folks would be mean to her?” Mason asked, his chin pointing at the blessedly silent cot.

Sherlock sighed. It wouldn’t be too surprising if they were; they had hardly ever been nice to him and he had been born under perfectly acceptable circumstances. But Beth, she was a scandal, gossip amongst their inner circle; they probably thought of her as a stain to their reputation. Just as they thought of him as one. 

“They don’t have a history of being nice”, he mumbled, closing his eyes.

“Well, maybe they’ll be different to her”, Mason sighed, setting in deeper into the bed, “I just can’t imagine grandparents rejecting the kid of their own kid.”

“Would it help to know they rejected their own kid too?”, why he was saying anything at all, he didn’t know. Must have been the exhaustion loosening his tongue. Or the smell of onions and tomato he had grown to associate with Mason; Mason, who was amongst the least unbearable humanity had to offer. 

“Really?”Mason startled. 

“Hmm”, his fists curled of their own volition, “when I told them I wanted to come here for school a bit earlier, they didn’t take it well. I had already been accepted but they had second thoughts; I don’t really know what it was, but they wouldn’t let me leave. There was a fight, I insisted, my father told me not to come back if I left, so I didn’t.”

“They kicked you out for wanting to go to school?”

“No”, he scoffed. His education had been the least of anyone’s problems with him, “Our relationship has always been strained. It was me wanting to leave a few weeks earlier that did it, it convinced them that I was ungrateful and resentful to the family. When I wouldn’t agree to stay, father just… told me to leave if I really wanted to. For good.”

“And you did.”

“And I did.”

“But surely now things are different”, he could feel Mason lift up his head to watch him. Sherlock didn’t open his eyes. “I mean, you have a baby now.”

“They have known about that all this time and haven’t communicated at all”, he turned on his back, away from Mason, “be it because they don’t want to or because they hope to force me to crawl back to them, I don’t know. It doesn’t matter.”

Mason lowered himself back down on the bed, taking one whole side of it, and didn’t say anything else. They both laid there, legs grazing. Bethany stayed asleep, thank God. Sherlock didn’t think he could have opened his eyes and gotten to his feet even if he wanted to. The same seemed to be true for his companion, who didn’t move a centimeter from where he was, not even when the balls of his feet encountered Sherlock’s sheens. No, they laid on the same bed, completely exhausted, listening to each other’s breaths while simultaneously keeping an ear out for the child, and kept one another company in the dark. Just as his last strands of consciousness ebbed away, Sherlock thought of his last bedmate, and how different Mason’s breaths were to hers. 

  
  


A wail made him jump awake, literally. Still fighting off the drowsiness of sleep, he shook his head and started to sit up. He stopped in his tracks when a mumble came from beside him. Mason. They had fallen asleep together, on his bed. That wasn’t… expected.

Beth, used to being catered to rather quickly, raised the volume of her unhappiness, desperately calling for him. Sherlock got to his feet, ignoring Mason’s slow awakening, and carried the baby. He rocked them both, recounting the periodic table, starting from Plutonium since that’s where they had left it the previous night. Mason slowly rose into a sitting position, blearily looking around the room. The other man passed a hand through his short mop of red hair, his fingers combing and pulling on the fiery locks. Finally, after a few minutes of putting the pieces together, Mason turned to him, wide-eyed. They both stared at each other, Sherlock not stopping to rock the baby in his arms; the hour or two spent together on his bed weighted heavily on the air, making it harder to breathe. Or perhaps that was just Sherlock. 

“Hey”, Mason whispered, sheepish.

“Hello.”

“I should probably go”, the other man pointed behind him, towards the door. 

“Yes, of course”, Sherlock shook his head, pushing away the cobwebs that had started to spread inside the pillars of some areas of his castle. The area that dealt with bedmates. “I’ll walk you out, she needs a bottle.”

“Right”, Mason nodded once, abruptly, and got on his feet.

They walked shoulder to shoulder, heading downstairs and going into the kitchen; Mason to gather his things, Sherlock to make the milk for Beth. The baby stayed relatively quiet, still sobbing lightly on the space between his shoulder and his neck. 

Mason grabbed hold of his bag and coat, walked to them, and stopped. Several silent breaths passed between them; Sherlock didn’t know what he was supposed to do now, what was expected of him, or of Mason, or if anything was expected at all. The other man broke out of the spell first; he blinked owlishly at him and smiled as he always did, exposing his dimples and making his green eyes seem smaller.

“Guess I’ll see you tomorrow night”, he walked towards Sherlock and Beth, smiling at the baby’s reclusive attitude and laid a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. 

“Of course”, he found himself saying back.

“Bye Beth”, Mason whispered, “see you around, Sherlock.”

He stood there, staring at Mason’s back as he walked away. Beth, now sniffling, dug her face deeper into her father’s skin, almost painfully. Sherlock didn’t move, he couldn’t. That whole night had been different, hadn’t it? It wasn’t just sitting on his bed for a three-minute conversation, nor was it joking over a chopping board to pass the time in that idiotically small kitchen, it wasn’t even jointly fussing over the baby. Not that he fussed, of course, ever. 

It had felt like the child’s birthday, like the moment they stood in his room and watched Beth playing with her new cat.  _ To keep the dog company. _ His daughter’s second toy, the one Mason had given to her, spent money on; it felt like the warmth in his chest as he smiled at the other man, unable to say anything at all, not even the most heartfelt _thank you_ he would have said in years. 

“Gettin’ close, aren’ ya?”, someone gruffed by the entrance to the kitchen. Sherlock looked up to find Marcus watching them, an odd glint to his eyes.

“What are you still doing here?” He asked instead.

“Paperwork”, Marcus leaned back, frowning. 

“What?”, Sherlock snapped, tired of being observed.

“Nothin’”, the pub owner answered, but remained where he was, observing, “just hope you know what you’re doing.”

“What on Earth are you talking about?”

“Ya took him to yer room?”

“We were talking and fell asleep, nothing more”, then he realized he was somehow excusing himself to a man that may have been his boss, or his landlord, but was definitely not his father, and bristled. “What do you care, it’s none of your business.” 

“Just sayin’”, the older man raised his hands, “ya seem good friends, but ya gotta think about what yer ready for and what yer not.”

“And you would know”, Sherlock hissed, “you would know what I can do better than I do.”

“‘Course not”, Marcus appeased, eyes softening, “just be careful. It’s not just ya that’d get hurt now.” 

With that, the pub owner left him alone, standing amidst the empty kitchen with a baby and empty bottle in his hand. His lips unconsciously pressed against the dark curls on the baby’s head. As always, he didn’t purse his lips, he didn’t properly kiss, instead, he closed his eyes and took in Bethany’s now comforting smell. 

_ One year, two weeks, and six days.  _

Bethany refused to go to sleep. For the first time in a year, she absolutely refused to sleep. As an infant, she had cried for hours at a time, but would always exhaust herself and collapse in someone’s arms. This time, she didn’t cry, didn’t frown, didn’t collapse. No, she kept her head raised, her eyes wide awake, and held up a one-sided conversation with the lamp on the bedside table. 

Sherlock groaned. His shift would start any second now, he couldn’t stay up here any longer. If he didn’t leave now, he would be late. And Marleen had threatened louder than usual the night before. It seemed a birthday was to be celebrated that night, and no one was allowed to miss out on the kitchen work. Absolutely no one.  _ If ya die on yer way, carry yer corpse and show up.  _ He couldn’t not be there; for once, he believed the woman would get him fired if he did miss tonight. 

“Why are you still awake?”, he groaned. The child paid him no mind. “You have to sleep, now.”

Bethany looked up at him, her gaze steadily holding his.

“No”, she went back to conversing with the inanimate object of the night.

Sherlock groaned louder, hiding his face in her curls. There was no way she would fall asleep, there was no way he would leave her alone up here and awake, there was no way he would miss this shift either. With a sigh, he clutched his daughter and walked out the door.

“Alright.”

He took them both downstairs, past the clients and into the kitchen. Several of the kitchen aids turned to stare at them. Almost none of them had seen the baby since he had moved into the room upstairs all those months ago; and he had never taken her deep into the kitchen either. He walked to the back, where he knew the highchairs were kept, grabbed one, set it up in the least traversed corner and dropped the child on it. 

“What do ya think yer doing?”, Marleen bellowed from the center of the kitchen. Sherlock closed his eyes, releasing a long suffering sigh and prepared for battle. 

“I am coming to the shift you said we could not miss, even if dead”, he snarked back, “unless you want me to leave a one year old unsupervised and awake in a second floor room, this is where she is going to have to stay.” 

The woman glared at him, her eyes ablaze. Sherlock stayed where he was, slightly in front of the child, with his head held high. The cook spinned one of her knives around, looking from him to Bethany, and back again.

“The lassie makes a mess”, she started, pointing one of her crooked fingers at him, “it’s yer head.” 

“Fine.”

“Get to work.” He did. He sent the baby the hints of a smile, left her with her stuffed dog, and walked to a stove. Thankfully, the baby did not start wailing in her seat. 

He was sure he would spend the whole night holding his breath; the child would grow tired eventually, and when he did he had no idea of what he would do. Or if he would be allowed to do anything. He really, really hoped the child didn’t cause a scene.

“Hey”, the usual knee tapped against his own, “bad night?”

“Too good”, he said through his teeth, “she was having too much fun to just sleep as any other baby would.” 

Mason snickered beside him, hiding his face near Sherlock’s shoulder. He held his breath, focusing on the stove in front of him.

“Maybe a bit of extra company would help”, the red-haired man whispered near Sherlock’s ear. His breath hitched, getting trapped in his throat.

“Do you think so?”

“Perhaps”, a mischievous smile adorned the freckled face, “wouldn’t hurt to try, would it?”

Sherlock stared at him, at the green eyes and the pink lips, the freckles, the wild hair. Hurt? No, not all. But, Marcus’ words came back to him. Bethany liked Mason, perhaps even more than he did; if Mason were to disappear, would Beth notice? Would she suffer it, even at such a young age? 

He was saved from responding by Bethany shrieking from her chair. His stomach dropped. Sherlock set down the pan and spoon he had been holding, turning to the baby, and his mouth dropped open. Marleen had somehow wound up next to Beth, thankfully with no knives in hand, and was currently enrolled into a babbled conversation regarding the stuffed dog and himself, seeing as both the girl and the cook were pointing at him. To his surprise, Beth was smiling, and Marleen… well, she wasn’t scowling. 

“Yer supposed to be cookin’”, Marleen snapped at him, “Lassie and I are just fine. Talkin’ of yer awful carrot choppin’.”

“Lovely”, he drawled.

“Work.” The cook turned her back to him, nodded at the baby and went into the back. 

“Terrifying”, his friend-of-sorts said beside him. All Sherlock could do was nod. 

_ One year and one month _ . 

They were back in that horrid building, with its ridiculously tall walls and expensive… everything. Bethany seemed as amazed as she had been the last time they had been there. He honestly couldn’t see the appeal. Though, he supposed the reflective ceiling of the elevator would be rather entertaining for a child. He knocked on his brother’s door, the knot on his stomach not as tight as it had been last time but still very noticeable. 

This time Mycroft opened the door with a grimace.

“Glad to see us, then?”, though he hadn’t thought it possible, his brother’s face twisted even further, the lines around his eyes deepening. 

“Come in”, Mycroft muttered, closing the door behind them and walking directly to the living room. 

Sherlock stopped by the dining table. His brother was very obviously anxious about something; his heart nearly stopped.  _ Not the money. _ As far as he knew, there was absolutely nothing for them to fight about, a novelty in itself. His brother had all but demanded the meeting, and Sherlock had taken it for the older man wanting to establish a sense of control over the two younger Holmes’. It seemed he had miscalculated. 

“What’s wrong?”, he was almost embarrassed by the shake in his voice, but then, things seemed rather desperate, “are you cutting us off the trust fund?”

“What?”, Mycroft looked up sharply, eyebrows raised to his hairline, “of course not, don’t be ridiculous.”

“Then what is it?”, he growled at his brother’s silence, “I’m not an idiot, Mycroft. What. Is. It?”

The older Holmes swallowed, pressing his fist to his mouth. He seemed to study Sherlock, to study his eyes and whatever it was he could see in them. Then he reached out to the couch Sherlock had taken last time, “take a seat, please.”

Instinctively, he clutched the child tighter, turning on his side to keep her from Mycroft’s direct approach. There was something wrong, that much was obvious. Though it seemed he was, thankfully, not going back to bordering on poverty. Not this time. He walked slowly to the leather sofa, back tense. His brother looked away from him, hands resting on his legs. Mycroft cleared his throat, and started talking,

“After our last meeting I was asked to deliver a… report, if you will, to the parental unit”, the other man’s eyes flew to Bethany before turning back to him, “about the state the both of you were in, and the presence of young Bethany in your life.”

Sherlock’s blood boiled. Of course, back to spying for Mummy, as usual, “I’m sure you enjoyed it, playing me for an idiot.”

“It wasn’t like that”, Mycroft snapped back, eyes narrowed, “perhaps, if you could swallow your pride for once in your life, you would see that _ I  _ am on your side.” 

“And involving them when I don’t want  _ my daughter _ anywhere near them is being on my side?” Beth startled as his voice got louder, releasing a whimper from his arms. Sherlock closed his eyes, standing up and rocking the baby as he paced the living room floor. 

“They are her grandparents”, his brother whispered from his chair, “why are you so adamant to keep her from them?”

“You know why.”

“No, brother mine”, Mycroft sighed, following the young man’s manic pacing with his eyes, “I really don’t.”

Sherlock ignored him, focusing on Beth instead of thinking about the many years of reasons why he knew it would be best for his parents to stay away from them, from the baby, “you weren’t there, you can’t know because you weren’t there.”

“Perhaps”, Mycroft acknowledged with a nodd, “but they wanted me to give you something.”

He stopped mid-step, turning his back to the older man and focusing on the window by the dinning room. 

“Oh?”

“They knew you wouldn’t pick up the phone”, his brother started.

“Did they?”, he couldn’t help but interrupt. How could they possibly know such a thing if they hadn’t even tried to call at all, ever. 

“So, they wrote a letter instead, I am to deliver it”, Mycroft continued, glaring at him from where he sat, “whether you chose to read it or not is your decision to make; but I must ensure that you take it with you when you leave.”

“And if I don’t? Will they call then?”, he turned to look directly at the older man, rattling Beth as he did, “or continue to ignore me? shake the _ Sherlock problem _ off of their shoulders on the excuse that they tried and move on with their lives.”

“Of course not”, Mycroft smiled sardonically, “they’ll write another one, and another one, until you respond.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure”, he said through gritted teeth. What good timing they had to start trying to communicate with him. Never mind it's been three years. 

“Sherlock…”

“Isabel died”, he finally snapped, voice cutting, “she died. I buried the mother of my child, and they couldn’t have cared less.”

Mycroft looked away, frowning. He had no problems with his brother, not about this, but he was getting sick of the man always taking their parent’s side whenever something happened. There were no excuses, not this time, not when they were the parents and he had lost everything. Not when they had left him alone.

“I’m sorry”, Sherlock scoffed.

“Your apologies do nothing for me”, had the baby not been in his arms, he would have probably started shaking them, “and neither will theirs, if that’s even what they intend to say.”

The fact that his brother did not immediately jump to assure him their parents were, in fact, apologizing, calmed him a bit. At least he wasn’t so desperate as to lie to his face just yet, “you don’t have to read it, but I need you to take it.”

“Why?”, he asked, this time with genuine curiosity. What did Mycroft care what his relationship with the parental unit was like?

“Because they may have wronged you”, Mycroft’s demeanor softened as he turned to Beth, “both of you”, an apologetic glint appeared in his brother’s eyes, “but they haven’t wronged me. Not like this.”

“One would think you  _ being on my side, _ as you say, would be enough”, he hissed.

“This is family”, the pompous git curled his fists.

“That’s exactly my point.”

“Take it, little brother.”

He didn’t. Sherlock didn’t even breathe, he simply stood where he was, swaying from side to side to keep Beth calm. She did pick up on his moods rather quickly. 

“Sherlock”, Mycroft appeared next to him, placing his hand on the younger one’s shoulder, “I understand your hesitations, but our parents may be of use to you both.”

“I already have you."

“Of course”, a gentle curl on his brother’s lips erased some of the newer stress lines around his eyes and brows, “but we both know Father is farther reaching than myself, as is Mummy, in her own ways.”

“And if I don’t want their help?”

“Wanting and needing are very different things”, the hand on his shoulder squeezed once before letting go, “remember, Sherlock, caring is not an advantage.”

“I have to care now.” Sherlock pointed at the baby with his chin. 

“Not about everything” , Mycroft’s hand rested on Beth’s head, sweeping the small curls from her forehead, “just her.”

Sherlock rested his cheek against the little girl’s temple resting on his shoulder; there were so many things he had already done against his better judgement for the sake of this child. But  _ this, _ withdrawal was easier than this, far easier. A soft plea came back to him, the thunders that had been lightening the skies out the window reverberating in his brain. 

_ “Promise you’ll stay?”, Sabel mumbled, her head resting on the pillow next to his. _

_ “I’m not going anywhere.” There were very few things he knew right now; truly, undoubtedly knew. But  _ this, _ this he was sure of.  _

He blinked repeatedly, fighting away the stinging in his eyes. Sherlock pressed his lips against the baby’s temple in a not-quite-kiss and took the letter in his shaky hand. 

_ One year, one month, and two weeks. _

Mason sat on the bed with the baby in his arms and looked up at him. Sherlock longed for something to do, anything at all. Perhaps there were clothes to be folded somewhere, or the chipped tub in their adjacent bathroom needed cleaning, or the curtain he had put up as a pseudo-door had to be changed. Anything to not have to meet the green eyes waiting for his reply.

“So?”, Mason urged, twirling one of the small curls between his fingers, “have you read it yet?”

He sighed, all but collapsing on the floor with his back against the wooden floorboards. He searched for imperfections above him, there were quite a few, but he had already cataloged most of them in his Mind Palace. “Not yet.”

“Why?”, the slightly older man groaned from the bed, “you have felt like shit over your parents not calling, and now that they have, you aren’t going to read that letter?”

“Technically, they still haven’t called.”

“Sherlock.” Mason sounded remarkably like Gina when he was annoyed. 

He growled from the floor, turning on his side to look directly at his friend-it’s-complicated and curled up, holding his knees to his chest. It used to anger his father terribly whenever he did it after the age of seven.  _ Too childish, _ he said. Of course, that only made him do it more often. “What if I read that letter only to find I have been disinherited, or that they intend to host a reunion at the house in Surrey to unrecognize Beth as a member of the family, or worse, what if they want us to live with them?”

“If they don’t want her around, you tell them to piss off”, the ginger spoke as if Sherlock was a very young child, “and if they want you guys to live with them and you don’t, then you tell them to piss off too, just politely.”

He snorted, pressing his forehead against his knees, “clearly, you have never met my parents. It’s a miracle I managed to get out of that house as soon as I did, and I still had to be kicked out in order to accomplish it.”

Mason sighed, falling back on the bed and placing the child on his chest. They kept quiet for a few seconds, each gathering their thoughts. 

“I think you’re scared”, finally, his companion mumbled.

“I beg your pardon?”, Sherlock did  _ not _ squeak from where he was, lifting his head so his eyes were above his legs.

“You heard me”, Mason remained calm, gently tracing the baby’s back with his hand, “I think you’re scared of what they’ll say, that they’ll hurt you guys, so you’re avoiding it.”

“That’s preposterous.”

“Is it?”, the ginger sat up, green eyes meeting blue. “‘Cus I think you want to read that letter, that you’ve wanted to  _ receive  _ that letter for God knows how long, and now that it’s finally here, you have no idea of what to do with it.”

“I don’t want to hear from them”, Sherlock sat up as well, holding the other man’s gaze, “I haven’t wanted them in my life for years.”

The sad smile that took over Mason’s freckled face made him nauseous, made him feel like a charity case, “even if it would mean getting an apology?”

This conversation is pointless”, he slammed his palm on the wooden floor, “and I am loath to continue it. They will never apologize and I won’t either, topic closed.”

With a long-suffering sigh, Mason walked up to him and dropped the baby in his lap, “not even if it would mean her having more of everything? More people, more money, more presents during Christmas and her birthday?”, he dropped a freckled hand in the space between Sherlock’s neck and his shoulder, gently tracing his thumb in circles over his flushed skin. “I just think you might regret it if you don’t read that letter.”

“And if I regret reading it?”, he would forever defend his voice not sounding anywhere near as small as it did to his own ears.

“Then at least you’ll know.” They looked at each other, holding their breath. For a moment, brief as it may have been, Sherlock forgot; he forgot about the letter, and his parents, and Sabel, he even forgot Beth was on his lap. All he could think about were the deep green eyes staring back at him, and the array of freckles decorating their surrounding skin. But it was just a moment, and as they always do, it ended all too soon. “Just think about it.”

Mason got up, with one last smile at both father and daughter, and left the room, closing the door behind him. Sherlock, on his part, remained on the floor, this time holding his daughter, and tried to remember how to breathe. 

_ One year, two months. _

Somehow, they had ended up making coffee in the after-hours of the night shift, making the most out of the lull that came with closing time at the pub. He was never going to fall asleep now, he knew, but the conversation had been the lightest one Mason and he had been able to hold since that stupid letter had arrived. Trust his parents to inadvertently make his life harder, even if they were hours away. 

Mason chuckled as he set his cup down on the counter, “you can’t be serious.” 

“I am.” Sherlock tried not to lose his train of thought by looking too deep into the green eyes.

“You want me to believe that you sneaked into the labs at your school and blew up half of the chemistry set?”, Sherlock nodded proudly, “and you weren’t expelled? Impossible.”

“My parents were rather influential there”, he shrugged, “they pulled strings.”

His companion went back to laughing, not trying to keep his voice down half as hard as they usually did; but then, they were usually trying not to wake the baby. There were no babies in the kitchen. Here, they could be as loud as they wanted with little to no repercussions. Even Marcus was gone for the night. 

“You are unbelievable”, the redhead mumbled from where he sat across from him. There was that look in his eyes again, the look that always confused Sherlock. He was sure he’d seen it before Mason, he just couldn’t remember where. 

Sherlock shrugged, looking down at his cup of coffee lest the other man sees the slight flush that was resting on his cheeks. Because of the coffee's warmth, of course. “I have been told, though it’s not usually a good thing.”

“Aren’t you the one always going on about people being idiots?”

“Well, they are”, he protested in feigned indignance.

“I’m not disagreeing”, Mason smirked, taking a long drink from his coffee.

They fell quiet, each nursing their own cups. Sherlock was glad the baby slept longer every day, hopefully, the day would come when she would stop waking at the earliest hours of the morning, forcing him to start his vigilance almost as soon as he fell into bed. At this rate, he would be exhausted for the rest of his life. And to think there had been a time when he didn’t sleep for days on end and suffered no consequences from his transport. He really had to get that back in order. Would Isabel be as tired as he was after a full year of caring after their child? Would she have even stayed with them? Would he have stayed, if he’d been given the chance to leave? He was pretty sure that he wouldn’t have walked away on either one of them, he had really been decided to be a part of it all once everything had been said and done, once their new reality had been undeniable. He missed Sabel less than he had before, he supposed that was natural;  _ pain heals all wounds, _ or so they say. And yet, it was good to have someone else to sit with him so late at night; it wasn’t Isabel and strawberry milkshakes, but it wasn’t anywhere near bad either. In fact, though he would never admit it aloud, he’d found himself longing for this sort of easy-going company. These days, most of his hours were reduced to Beth and her own needs, and if he wasn’t keeping the child alive, he was working in order to keep her alive. It was nice, for lack of a better word, having something that wasn’t all about her. He couldn’t say he regretted the turn of things, but there were still moments when his mind wandered into the dangerous territory of what his life could have been like, had the child not been born. He would have been in his third year at university, perhaps still close to Isabel, perhaps not. He would have been a step closer to becoming a graduate chemist. It would have been nice. 

“Am I an idiot?”, a quiet rumble interrupted his reverie. Mason was looking at him, his eyes much darker than he had ever seen them before. 

Sherlock thought about his answer. It couldn’t be said that Mason was complex or cleverer than anyone, in fact, the other man was rather simple. And yet, in his simplicity, he was completely unique; no one had treated him or the child the way Mason had. No one had been as preferable to the general human since Isabel, not even close. 

“No”, he shuddered, feeling his pulse quicken in his ears, “not at all.”

Something approximating a smile decorated his friend’s lips, not growing any wider nor smaller as he set down his cup and moved until he sat right next to Sherlock, their shoulders touching. The unreadable look was twice as loud as it had ever been before, had he not known any better, he would have thought it was shouting at him, begging to be noticed. For once, he feared there might have been a similar look in his own eyes. 

“Can I try something?”, Mason leaned closer to him, his face a mere few centimeters from his own. From where he sat, he could see a light shaking around Mason’s neck. It made shivers run down Sherlock’s spine. 

“If you must”, his skin was burning now, pressing against the ridiculously wild beating of his heart.

Mason did, closing in on his face until the tips of their noses met. At the very last second, they locked eyes and the other man stopped, giving him every opportunity to move away. He didn’t. Instead, Sherlock pressed back, moving into the other man’s space until his lips rested right above Mason’s, and then he stopped, his mind running wild in utter astonishment for what he was doing, who he was doing it with. He couldn’t understand. Until Mason pressed back, his warm lips taking over his own as they danced with each other; Sherlock’s pulse was deafening in his own ears, and he didn’t want to understand anymore; he didn’t want to think, and it was terrifying. 

His arms moved of their own volition, locking behind Mason’s neck, pulling the other man closer to him. Something that sounded akin to a growl emanated from his companion’s throat, reverberating in their locked lips and making Sherlock sigh. A dark, far corner of his mind shook, almost in warning. He ignored it, pressing into the soft lips harder. Mason’s hands held his hips and Sherlock let go; he surrounded himself by the scent of tomatoes, and metal, and a very particular brand of soap that was ever so  _ Mason _ ; hungrily, he pressed their bodies closer, letting the freckled hands lock around his lower back until there was little but the thin layers of clothes between them. He very notably did not make something far too close to a whine as Mason’s warmth moved onto his jaw, his neck, his earlobe. He did, however, tilt his head, allowing the contact. A breathless gasp escaped his lips as Mason nibbed at his carotid, his fingers gripped harder on the slim shoulders, and the sensations built until they were bordering on too much. Half of his consciousness went to his Mind Palace, hoping to regulate some of the sensory input by compartmentalizing what he did and did not process; but the doors to his sanctuary were slammed open as soon as he tried to enter, and he was attacked by another smell, his skin prickling as the ghost-like touch of another’s hands traced his body, another pair of lips engulfed his mouth; it was like drowning, each of his senses being ambushed at once by old memories of a girl he had once held this close. Even his consciousness gripped onto his neck, bringing forth the beat of  _ Dancing with Myself, _ the taste of alcohol, stars on London’s skies, dancing under trees, and a soft voice humming to  _ La Vie en Rose.  _ He panicked, his breath hitching in his throat, and all but shoved Mason away from him, gasping and shaking as he did so.

“What happened?”, the man he had pushed until nearly toppling over asked, his eyes frantically ranking Sherlock’s body.

“I… I’m sorry, I”, he sat down on his stool, trying to get his breath back, “I can’t.”

Mason looked completely confused, his brows raised in exactly the kind of hurt he had been afraid to see ever since his conversation with Marcus all those nights ago. But there was something else there too, and this time it was something he could recognize. Concern. “Sherlock.”

“There’s... that is… it’s too much”, he tried to explain himself, his mind still reeling from the ruthless attack it had just sent against him. He hadn’t explained about the Palace yet, and he knew it would make absolutely no sense to try and do so no, yet he still felt like he had to try and say something, “I still have Isabel in my mind, and she’s running loose in there and I can’t get her to leave.” He looked up at Mason, wanting to slam his fists on the counter at the resignation emanating from the red-haired man, “I’m sorry.”

Mason gifted him a rueful smile, shaking his head slightly as he did, “no, no, don’t be”, he put his freckled hands in the pockets of his trousers, looking down at his feet, “I mean it, it’s… alright. I get it, really”, with a deep breath, Mason met his gaze and smiled kindly, much the way he had when they’d met. It was nearing hesitant, and Sherlock hated it. “It’s fine.”

“I do want to”, he whispered brokenly from where he was, willing the other man to believe him, “but I can’t.”

“I know.”

For the first time in his life, a hate-fueled fire grew in his chest, and it was directed at Isabel.

_ One year, two months, and two days _ . 

The two-day break the weekend provided him from both work and Mason had been a welcome advantage. Over the last two days he had laid on his bed, with only Beth as company, and he had thought. He’d thought hard about his place in his own life, in Beth’s, and the consequences of the person he was growing into. Years ago, he would have never spared consequences or the future even half of a second. Years ago, he could have died in a minute and he wouldn't have cared much. Sometimes he still didn’t, but then the baby would call out to him and he had reason not to die. A reason to care. Had his parents ever felt that way about him? Had he ever been enough of a reason for them to do anything? Even as a baby? Horribly enough, he wasn’t so sure he’d ever been enough for them; he certainly wasn’t now. 

Maybe, if he already knew the very worst-case scenarios that would come of it, reading that letter wouldn’t be the worst. Hate it as he might, because he really did hate it, Mycroft had a point. His brother’s goodwill had been useful, but his parents could be even more so. Sherlock would never accept their help enough to grow dependable on his parents, but there were things, like a larger home or better resources for the child’s future education, that they could help him with. Serves them right, really. God knows they always held their giving him  _ the best  _ over his head. Whatever that was supposed to mean. 

He turned to the cot next to him, where the child sat, playing with her two toys, “what do you think? Is it worth it?” The baby, of course, ignored his question completely, instead opting to show him the dog with a smile and a coo. He smiled back, “it wouldn’t hurt for you to own more things, that’s true. Or me, for that matter.”

Sherlock turned to the ceiling and sighed. Despite the obvious advantages to it, he really didn’t want to establish contact with the parental unit again, not after everything. Though, he considered, whatever he chose to do was not going to be a fully argumented choice if he didn’t read that stupid letter. An experiment, of sorts. He had his hypothesis of what it would say, of what their stand would be; if he was right, he could gladly ignore them both and cut them off for good. But if it wasn’t, then there was the slight possibility of responding, whenever he wanted and however he wanted. 

“Alright, Beth”, he told the girl as he got up from his bed and opened the bedside drawer, pulling the letter out, “time to know just how terrible they are.”

Sitting up with his back against the wall, he unfolded the letter and took a deep breath. Then, once his heartbeat had calmed down slightly, he looked down at the paper and read his parents' words, his insides twisting with every line.

_ William,  _

_ As we are sure you know by now, there has been much talk about your person over the last three years. Of course, we have counted on your brother's reports, however, it is also our belief that you must deliver whatever news you have in your own words. If the case were proven to be that there is now a new member to our family, then whatever necessary arrangements will be made in order to ensure this new life develops as all Holmes’ should. Old resentments should not dictate how many opportunities your child could have in this life, and we all know that our involvement in the life of who is, by all accounts, our grandchild -and in being so, our responsibility, would open many doors for you both. Hopefully, you will make an adult decision, and we shall hear from you soon.  _

_ -Siger and Margaret Holmes.  _

__

His stomach clenched. Not the hypothesis he’d expected after all; but not too far either. Sherlock knew better than to take this as an offer for help out of some kindness; he knew it was much more complex than that. He read the letter again, reading between the lines for whatever form of threat or future manipulation could be hidden within the words his parents had clearly chosen so carefully. For once, the thinly veiled insult at the end of their ridiculous letter was not so hurtful; they had said far worse to his face in the past. Yet, he did not like the overall tone of their message;  _ our responsibility, as all Homes' should, our involvement.  _ To him, it sounded an awful lot like  _ we own you, and in doing so, own her too. Now let us dictate your futures, _ which was exactly what he didn’t want. Besides, it was very rich for them to blame old resentments on him, considering more than half of their fights over the years had been initiated by his mother and aggravated by his father; adult decisions indeed.

No, they couldn’t come back into his life like this, he wouldn’t allow it. Whatever their intentions, he would dictate when and how they got access to him again; and he would surely dictate when and _ if _ they ever got access to Beth. This much he had clear. Over his dead body would the child grow up in a suffocating environment as had been the house in Surrey. 

Abruptly, and before he could change his mind, Sherlock got up from his bed and opened the drawer again, ignoring the sweat on his brow as the white powder appeared at the very back. He slammed it shut after pulling out one of his notebooks and a pen. His eyes drifted to Beth, who was contently meowing back at her cat, completely oblivious to the possibly gigantic change he was about to cause in their cramped existence. 

Gritting his teeth and cursing the universe itself, he wrote his parents back. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all for today then. I really hope I'm not boring anyone, I promise the story is about to pick up pace very soon, and we're every day closer to inviting more of the beloved characters we know from BBC Canon.   
> I'll see you guys soon and I hope you keep enjoying this series with me :)

**Author's Note:**

> So, that's that for today. Hope you liked this chapter and are eagerly awaiting Mycroft's proper entrance, which is what the next chapter will be all about. What do you think his first meeting with Beth will be like?  
> And if you've read the other parts and noticed a shift in how Sherlock thinks of Isabel, then there is a very good reason for that. I have always thought that one of our boy's coping mechanisms is some brutal denial; so, when he was at his worst, he thought of Isabel as "practically nothing at all", but now that he's starting to heal, he'll be willing to be more honest to himself about caring for her. I still don't think of them as much of a romance as I do of them as a friendship, but the dynamic will be left rather vague so that it can be fully explored during the long part that takes place in BBC Canon.   
> Anyways, that's all for today! Have a good one and be kind to yourselves and each ther! :)


End file.
